The King Remembers
by UndiscoveredQueen19
Summary: The night after a battle, Agamemnon remembers his past and wonders about his future.


The King Remembers

Agamemnon stepped into his tent, weary after the day's battles. The never-ending onslaught of men, horses, swords, and blood was enough to make even the most adventurous traveler feel homesick. As he dragged himself across his tent and collapsed onto his pallet, Agamemnon realized that, for the first time, he missed Mycenae. He missed his home, with all its faults and troubles. He missed the usual routine of a day, being able to complete his schedule without worrying about being stabbed by a Trojan or a traitor. He missed having his closest advisors by his side; here, all he did was argue with Achilles and decide which of his men are the most expendable. Seven long years of constant war had worn Agamemnon down, and it showed. He never had envied the Trojans before, but he suddenly wondered how much easier it must be to have their homes, their families, their countrymen with them when they retreat.

Agamemnon sighed. It was a long, slow sigh, riddled with pain and sadness and frustration. Why had he ever been so anxious to start this war? Had he truly been so restless with his own homeland, so bloodthirsty and power-hungry, that he couldn't leave well enough alone? Helen obviously did not want to come home. Menelaus desperately clung to the hope that his wife still loved him and would one day return, but Agamemnon didn't think she would. No, the war the Greeks were fighting was no longer an issue of a stolen queen; it was a matter of honor. The mighty Agamemnon of Mycenae would never retreat, no matter how much he lost.

A single tear slid from Agamemnon's eye, becoming lost in his matted beard. Agamemnon tried to remember the last time he had cried. It had been years, decades perhaps. He was only thirty-seven years old, yet the years had marked him, drawing lines across his face like currents in an ocean and slashing gray streaks through his black hair. For the most powerful king in Greece, tears were not an option, and Agamemnon had not felt the urge to cry since he was very young. He was strong, stalwart, immovable. He would not cry for his homesickness.

So he let his mind drift. Through long-buried memories, past half-forgotten conversations and ghostly remnants of old lovers and friends, Agamemnon's thoughts traveled to his mother. He remembered so little of her. He knew her name had been Aerope; though Atreus had ordered that his unfaithful wife's portrait be stripped from the palace walls, many of the servants remembered Aerope and were more than happy to tell Agamemnon about his mother. Agamemnon liked to imagine her to be as beautiful as Aphrodite, as clever as Athena, and as gentle as Hestia. He knew that his mother had forsaken his father for Atreus' brother, but still Agamemnon could not bring himself to think of her as any less than an angel. Surely she must have been to have possessed such a hold over Atreus.

Agamemnon then thought of his father. Atreus was tall and proud, with eyes as green and cold as the sea. The same sea that he had thrown Aerope into. Agamemnon found that he could never quite forgive his father for that; perhaps Aerope had merely been lonely, or perhaps the cruelty Atreus had bestowed on her had driven her into Thyestes' arms. Oh, he had heard the stories: that Aerope was a deceitful, unfaithful backstabber who had used both Atreus and Thyestes to get what she wanted. But surely that wasn't right. Agamemnon could clearly remember Atreus' vicious temper and stone-cold heart; perhaps Aerope was miserable and wanted to make Atreus apologize. Whether it was true or not, Agamemnon liked to believe it was.

He thought of his best friend from childhood, Argynnus, who had been desperately in love with Aphrodite after glimpsing her at a festival. Oh, how he had pined for what he could not have! Agamemnon had borne witness to many occasions in which Argynnus prayed and begged and sobbed for Aphrodite to return his affection, but the goddess had never responded. That had infuriated Agamemnon. Surely the goddess could take a few moments from her immortal existence to bring a bit of joy to a poor, love-stricken mortal? Agamemnon knew that Paris, Helen's new lover, was a favorite of Aphrodite's, and it made him hate the coward all the more. Argynnus – good, kind Argynnus – had drowned after thinking he saw the goddess of love herself beckoning him from across the river Cephissus. Agamemnon had buried his best friend in the finest tomb he could build, and when he was finished, Agamemnon breathed one final prayer over his friend. Perhaps if Aphrodite would not love Argynnus in life, she would honor a loyal and devoted follower in death.

Agamemnon thought of Clytemnestra, his beautiful wife whom he had slowly grown apart from. The ghost of a smile crept across Agamemnon's face as he remembered the first time he saw Clytemnestra; she had ridden up on her magnificent red horse, golden hair creating a messy halo around her head as she grinned at him and asked him to race her. She was only fourteen years old at the time, but she had sent Agamemnon, seventeen, into a frenzy of desire and nerves. Their courtship had been short and their wedding simple, but Agamemnon remembered every detail of the night following. Clytemnestra was ambitious and sly, but she had a heart of gold and the most hypnotizing grey eyes Agamemnon had ever seen. Helen may have been the most beautiful woman in the world, but Agamemnon loved Clytemnestra more than any other woman he had ever met.

Agamemnon thought of Orestes, his only son. He had failed Orestes in more ways than one. Agamemnon had only been king for a few short months when Orestes was born, and the infant had taken a backseat to the more pressing matters at hand. Orestes should have been his pride and joy, his greatest accomplishment – after all, Orestes would be king when Agamemnon was gone – but he simple had never found the time to be the nurturing father he should have been. Clytemnestra had known; Agamemnon wished he had listened when she told him Orestes was seeking out other men as a father figure, but Agamemnon had not paid attention, just kept going the way he was going. He regretted it. Surely Orestes knew Agamemnon loved him and was proud of him? Perhaps not. Agamemnon couldn't ever remember saying it.

Agamemnon thought of his three daughters: Electra, Iphigenia, and Chrysothemis. Electra took after Clytemnestra; not only did she inherit the gold hair and grey eyes, but she was intelligent and unafraid of the world. Electra would make a fine queen someday, Agamemnon had always thought, but his daughter seemed uninterested in marrying and more interested in becoming Orestes' closest advisor. Iphigenia looked like Agamemnon; he hated it, because she deserved to be so much more beautiful than she was. She was good and kind and hadn't questioned him when he cold-bloodedly handed her over to be sacrificed. Agamemnon hoped she could forgive him; he hadn't yet forgiven himself. Chrysothemis hadn't said a word when Agamemnon and his army sailed to Troy; she never spoke, just waved and smiled like always. Sometimes, Agamemnon wished his youngest daughter could speak, but he often found that her silence was her best, sweetest quality.

Finally, Agamemnon thought of Menelaus, his brother, whom he had fought with and struggled against and ultimately would give up his life for. Menelaus, too, had begun to show sign of weariness of war, but he refused to give up hope that Helen would return, that the war they were fighting wasn't in vain. Agamemnon sometimes wished Menelaus would just find another woman – Agamemnon had Chryseis whenever he got to missing Clytemnestra too much – but Menelaus simply would not give up. He had always been stubborn; Agamemnon remembered a time when they were still teenagers, when Menelaus had courted Helen amidst scores of richer, handsomer, smarter suitors. Menelaus had done what he needed to do to marry Helen, and Agamemnon admired his younger brother for it. It was true, Agamemnon was ambitious and determined as well, but Menelaus had an unshakeable sense of loyalty that Agamemnon thought could be destructive. He just wished Menelaus didn't look so depressed all the time, so careworn and lonely. It made Agamemnon's heart ache.

Agamemnon let himself think for a while longer, remembering old friends, old homes, old times that would never return. The war would end, but when Agamemnon returned home, would he find Mycenae the way he left it? Would Clytemnestra welcome him with open arms? He doubted it. After Iphigenia's sacrifice, Agamemnon knew he had lost the only woman he truly loved. Orestes probably would not recognize him, and Electra would probably pretend not to. Agamemnon's world was gone, replaced with an existence of war and blood and pain.

Another tear ran down Agamemnon's cheek, joining its twin as he closed his eyes. Agamemnon knew he would rise the next morning and greet the day with his usual fire and hatred. His had been a life born of deceit and curses, and his old habits would not be broken by one evening of remembering. Still, it was somewhat calming to remember the good times of his life. Maybe that was all he could hope for. He had been a strong king, raising his kingdom to its most powerful and prosperous point. He had been good to Clytemnestra and their children, if a bit absent in their lives. Perhaps he could only treasure his happy memories and slough ahead into the dark, hoping their would be a pinprick of light somewhere to grasp. Perhaps the darkness would follow him. Perhaps not.

When Agamemnon marched into battle the next day, he wore a mask of stone-faced determination. There would be no more tears shed; not for the rest of his life. Just memories.

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A/N: Hi! Thanks for reading my story. It's my first Greek mythology attempt, and I hope to eventually write more. I'm not sure if I'm pleased with how this story came out, but I thought I'd publish it anyway. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks again for reading!


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